Psychology of the heart
by seamoons
Summary: I thought of the main character as David Thewlis  Remus lupin , who goes through trials in a relationship parting.


(I wrote this a long time ago, but I love it, me at my best! I think of the main character as David Thewlis)

Psychology of the heart.

It had been 6 days, 4 hours and 2 minutes since she'd left him and yes, he was most definitely counting. The separation had been practically unbearable for him, the loss, the pain, the practical bereavement he was going through that it seemed nobody could suffice. He couldn't help but continually revert to the question of what indeed was the point in life, good things always had ends and bad things never stopped, they never seemed to anyway. She'd hurt him. She'd hurt him more than once but for some reason no matter how much he tried to stop loving her, the task was impossible to accomplish. He sat in his upmarket London apartment. There was no sounding, no furniture either. The only thing that could be heard was the traffic and street noises from the city below. He sat in his chair, a circular one armed chair, as opposed to two separate ones. His foot was up on the other legs knee, his elbow resting on the chair arm and his head on it, looking out of the window. The other arm was in his lap, not doing much but being comfortable for him however he couldn't feel far from comfortable in his mentality. It was unclear if he was looking out of the window at the street below or if he was merely gazing into space, his eyes were wide and after a short time it became apparent he was re-enacting the scene to which in his view his life had ended on, the bomb which had sunken so deeply into his skin, beyond repair. She'd stabbed him before but it was never quite this painful, never hurt quite this much, she'd stabbed him so much perhaps he'd never repair? He didn't know, he didn't know much at this point in time.

It grew late and darkness fell upon the city. It seemed the disc replaying the torture he'd gone though had finally stopped playing, due perhaps to being played too much or boredom. His face portrayed an expression of shock that the city had been plunged into darkness and he felt as if only 5 minutes ago it was morning and he'd began sitting in his empty 5th floor apartment. He cleared his throat, lifting it from the numb arm it had been resting on and rose to attention, off his chair. His arm wasn't the only body part which was numb, his bum and his ankle which had been hanging at an angle from his knee were also dead which made him have to limp towards the empty kitchen. He had no aspiration to furnish the apartment so therefore he was not going to do it, he had to deal with the recent explosion in his heart first to try and suffice the pain.

He flicked on the electric kettle, the only thing that he'd bothered to install. He wasn't sure if it contained water, neither could he give a dam. He placed a hand on his back hip and leaned forwards slightly on the work top, the other hand supporting him by clinging onto the work top. He let out a painful sigh, as if his dead limbs were really hurting him and perhaps his heart was draining him too, along with the ever increasing old age.

The kettle boiled and he poured the tea, his limbs had been given sufficient time to repair now so he could carry it steadily back into the longue, without spilling any. He sat back in his chair, looking out over the street view before looking back ahead, crossing his legs and placing a hand between his legs, merely to keep it warm. He sipped his tea, blowing on it slightly as he did so, to be sure not to burn his mouth. Her words rang through his ears, her words, 'blow it first then you won't complain about your sore tongue' shattered his mind and he stopped, staring straight ahead as the tape began repeating again.

After a further few minutes his tea had grown sufficiently cold. He drank it on no more than 3 gulps and placed the mug on the floor beside the chair. His heart throbbing ever stronger, his friends growing ever further from knowing how it really felt, the pain with really burnt inside him.

The next thing he knew it was the next morning. He'd pulled down the mattress that was resting against the wall and slept on it in his dark jeans, black shoes and pale blue and white stripy top to which he layered with a cream t-shirt underneath. He stared into the distance as the tape replayed again. He grabbed his head with both hands, pressing it and screwing up his face, shouting out in pain, willing it, begging it, pleading it to stop, he'd do anything now, he was desperate. Then he stopped and got up from his mattress, sitting up and looking around the room.

He poured more tea; put both elbows on the worktop and put his head in them, taking deep breaths to stop his tears.

Finally, the 6th week, 5th day, 3rd hour and 12th minute he was standing up against the wall, facing it, shutting his eyes and whispering his feelings someone returned. The wall was his only friend at the time, someone he could tell his secrets to and would be sure that it would not spread them for it had no memory, or appeared not to on the flesh but he could feel something after speaking to it a while. The door shut and he jumped, he hadn't heard sound louder than his own footsteps for so long. He heard a few footsteps, turning his head to the door of the kitchen, listening. Then he walked out, his eyes wide in shock, his hands by his sides, his mouth open slightly. He stared at her; she looked at him, a tear falling from her cheek. She shook her head, trying to speak but she could only whimper. She went forward towards him at a pace and he took her in his arms, holding her head to his chest, feeling her hair, smelling her scent, shutting his eyes. She was everything he'd ever hoped for and though she'd killed him, she was the only one who'd manage to revive him.


End file.
